


Funeral March of the Marionette

by notthebigspoon



Series: Marionette [1]
Category: Kane (Band), Leverage
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eliot kills Moreau, it's with his bare hands. He makes his goodbyes with blood on his face and tears in his eyes and never says a single word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral March of the Marionette

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to season 3, disregarding the season finale.

When Eliot kills Moreau, it's with his bare hands. He makes his goodbyes with blood on his face and tears in his eyes and never says a single word. They know, the teams knows, everything that he did for Moreau, for money. The things in his past are beyond contempt, no matter how vehement Hardison's protests are that none of that matters. He tried to say that the past was the past, it didn't matter what they knew now. Eliot just needs to calm down, breathe, and they can go back to Nate's place to unwind.

He hadn't. Leverage had saved him from himself and he'd give Nathan and the crew that point without any denial. He'd never have changed without them.

Going back to California was never a part of the plan and LA was not where he wanted to be, but when he walks away from Hardison's choked protests and stunned silence from the girls, he's already plotting the route that will get him there as quickly as possible with minimal encounters with other human beings. He crosses into city limits at 11:32 at night. No one has truly seen him. A successful trip.

An unsuccessful feeling.

The further he had gotten from Boston, the sicker Eliot felt. Being left alone with your thoughts too long is never a good thing, not when you've got the kind of shit rolling around in your mind that he does. By the time the truck rolls to a halt and he cuts the engine, his breathing is ragged and his eyes are stinging with tears that he can't flow freely, because he doesn't think that he deserves to cry.

He doesn't deserve to be _here_ but he can think of nowhere else to go, nowhere else that he wants to be. He just hopes that the few years of good deeds with the team counts for something, gave him enough good karma for what he's about to do to not blow up in his face.

A lifetime ago, Eliot was another person with a different life who had never dispatched an entire family. He'd been looked after, overseen. His mama had said it was well that someone was looking after his health and morals, he certainly didn't keep a good enough eye on them on his own. That was true enough. When he'd left, he'd became a murderer.

He doesn't know what coming back is supposed to bring him.

The truck is parked on the curb. Dropped into park, engine cut, and Eliot climbs out, his eyes fixating on the house up the walk. The same house, with the same broad porch, the same porch swing and that stupid turtle yard ornament with a goofy smile sitting next to the door. It's all the same and instead of making him stop, wait, it propels him forward. He's up the sidewalk, up the stairs, across the porch before he can stop himself. He knocks, only once, then sags against the door frame.

Footsteps. The curtain pulls aside just enough for him to get a flash of light across his face before the locks on the door are being pulled and the door pulled open. There's a voice, soft and cautious and so familiar, even when it's the first time he's heard it in person in years, “Chris? Jesus Chris, is that you?”

“I... I'm sorry. It's late. I just had to, I had to see you. I had to go somewhere. Christ, Steve, I don't know what I'm doing.” Eliot chokes out, the tears finally pouring down his face, his shoulders shaking and his hands clenched tight at his sides.

It doesn't matter, now, that it's been more than ten years since he walked out of Steve's door after a screaming fight. It doesn't matter that he's just left his only steady lover in years, or that he doesn't know if Steve has someone now, no matter how stupid it would be to assume that anyone would let him stay single for too long. None of that matters.

What matters is that warm, strong, tattoo-ringed arm closing around his shoulders and drawing him in close, the screen door swinging shut behind him as he's pulled into the warmth of the house. What matters is the hand that slides through his hair, the warm breath and soft lips against the top of his head as Steve shushes him, hugs him, rocks him, coaxes him to just tell him what's wrong, what's happened, what's done this to you.

He does. He sits on his old spot on the couch, refuses to look up. He stares at his hands and tells Steve every horrible thing he's ever done, the things that wake him up screaming in the night. Eliot tells Steve the things he could never bring himself to admit to the crew, because Hardison and Parker were so _young_ and they at times had looked at Eliot like he had hung the moon. Because Sophie had mothered him in a way he'd never admitted that he missed. He tells Steve how he felt his word break apart when they knew what he kind of a monster he was, that he was no better than Moreau or any of the other scumbags they had taken down.

The silence when his story has reached it's end is overwhelming. He breaks it by whispering that he went to Steve because he didn't know where the hell else to go other than where he'd once been a good person, a decent person. Where he hadn't been a murderer.

Steve sits quietly before standing and gripping Eliot's chin in his hand, forcing Eliot to look at him. In the past, anyone who would have done that would have gotten a fractured wrist. Steve just gets blue eyes that are damp, bloodshot and more afraid than they've been in a long time.

“You're fucked up, Ch... Eliot. You're fucked beyond reason. I used to call you crazy, now you're downright fucking insane.” Steve murmurs, surveying Eliot's face, which is falling at his ex-boyfriend's words. Eliot jerks, tries to pull away, but Steve doesn't allow it. He holds on, leans closer, breath ghosting over Eliot's lips. “I know you're not lying to me. You never did, I wouldn't expect it now. And you're right, you've done some things that are beyond contempt. But you're wrong if you think you're beyond redemption. You did some bad. But you did a hell of a lot of good. You're not lost, Eliot. Not... not if you stay. Not if you stay with me.”

Eliot can't say no. Because however selfish it might be, that was what he wanted. For the man he's loved, even through all these years, to tell him that things can be okay for him and that he isn't lost.

It feels like things have never changed. Steve makes him eat dinner, shoos him off to the bathroom to wash away the road dust and relax a little. There's clothes laid out on the bathroom when he comes out, those horrible pajama pants that he'd always mocked and one of his old, ratty Alice in Chains shirts. It's too small but that doesn't seem to bother Steve, who tells him he's filled out with a laugh.

He hesitates before climbing into Steve's bed but it's obviously the right move, judging by the soft smile. Eliot settles, his body loosening up and his eyes drift shut almost automatically. His face presses into Steve's chest and a warm arm winds over him, cradling, holding him tight and he falls asleep with the unspoken words echoing in his mind.

 _'You can be saved. Let me save you.'_


End file.
